


fireside songs

by waterlit



Category: InuYasha - A Feudal Fairy Tale
Genre: Angst, Homesickness, Post-Canon, Regret, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-02 09:26:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8662204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterlit/pseuds/waterlit
Summary: The ghosts that haunt their hearths. #1: Kagome, homesickness, and life in feudal Japan. #2: Sango and the shadows festering in her heart. #3: Past sins don't let go; instead, they turn to canker deep in the heart. #4: Miroku dreams of a relapse of his curse.





	1. siren call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First posted on FFN in Jan 2016.
> 
> The series ended with everyone living happily ever after, but that , quite frankly, is unrealistic. Feel free to disagree, but I think that no matter how happy Kagome might be in ancient Japan, she would nonetheless be haunted by memories of the family she left behind and could never meet again.

Eight years of peace.

Five short years of marriage and two children and a smooth, round belly ripening with yet another babe. Five short years of life in feudal Japan, five short years of marital joy and practising the arts of the Miko. Five long years away from the home of her youth.

Kagome rocks a swaddled child against her bosom as she leans against the smooth wood of the doorframe. A storm rages outside, quick flashes of silver slicing through the gunmetal grey sky. Tonight, the fury of the gods is circling through the ancient world. Even the demon lords are sheltering beneath the wooden roofs of decrepit shrines.

Tonight, Kagome hears the call of the Bone-Eater's well in the empty spaces between each hard ring of the thunder god's anvil. It is nothing more than a faint pulse, the ghost of homesickness quickening to a heady start. Tonight, her heart races on through the tunnel of time, seeking a way to return to her mother, her brother, her aged grandfather whose days are numbered.

Tonight, more than other nights, the pain of parting without end scalds her heart and tears her apart. The pain snakes through her blood, etches itself into the roof of her mouth, claws the tender rims of her eyes.

The wind howls. _Go, go_ , it seems to say. _Go back if you wish to. They need you too_.

"Kagome?" Inuyasha says, lounging by the fire with their other, older, child. "Come back to the hearth. It's cold over there."

Kagome turns around; she meets Inuyasha's eyes, thinks of their shared joys and their tears, of their future and their fears. She thinks again of her grandfather, old and frail and hopeful; of her mother, kind and smiling and waiting; of Sota, probably all grown up by now.

Where are they, what have they done these five years, what will they do in the years to come? How will they fare?

But tonight, as always, Kagome shuts the door and turns her face, _turns her heart_ , away from the storm, away from the call of the land she has forsaken. The well is closed now, a musty relic of a different age, the storied portal of a time when the Shikon jewel played havoc with the lives and times of mortal men and dreadful demons alike.

Kagome walks to Inuyasha, settling down by the hearth, hands him the babe at her chest and stirs the cookpot. They are snug and warm in their house, in this house that Inuyasha built. They are safe and happy together.

And yet, even as Kagome warms her hands by the crackling fire, she hears the siren call of the home she has lost amidst the howling wind, sees her grandfather's wrinkled face in the coils of smoke rolling upwards from the hearth, feels her mother's soft touch in the warmth from the fire, feels Sota's absence in the silence between the echoes of the thunderstorm.

There is a _thud-thud_ in her heart, the ache of love, the misery of separation, and even the bright fire cannot chase away the shadows that dance along the walls, cannot dispel the darkness that creeps from the door to the hearth and tangles its spidery fingers into her hair.

"Stay with me," she says to Inuyasha.

He reaches for her nearest hand, rubs her palm with the rough edges of his fingers. "Of course," he says. "Is something wrong?"

"Nothing, nothing's wrong," she says, looking deep into Inuyasha's eyes. "I—"

"I'll stay with you," he says, and tightens his hold on her hand.

She leans into his embrace, and he stays with her as they watch the cookpot, and his love warms her. His love, his embrace, they keep the shadows at bay. And yet the ghosts of her past lurk in the dark corners, flitting by the doorway as the lightning leaps in the sky, watching her and waiting for another chance to stake their sharp knives into her heart.


	2. in the penumbra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sango and the shadows festering in her heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As with the first piece on Kagome, I find it hard to believe that Sango could let go of her ghosts so quickly as a survivor of the war.

_Morning_

Sango wakes to a chilly draft and an empty space beside her on the futon. She reaches out, brushes with trembling fingers the still-warm spot where Miroku lay just moments ago before he left to join Inuyasha on a quick exorcism mission.

Sango lies still and watches the faint stars in the sky. She dislikes these silent dawns, these drawn-out periods of waiting, this fear that Miroku might—no, she cannot think it. Instead, she thinks of her children, fast asleep in the next room, and forces herself up. It is daybreak, and time to kindle the fire.

Sango knots her hair and ties her sash, and heads to the kitchen. She boils the rice, stirs the soup, watches the sun claw its way above the sleeping mountains. In the short span between waking up and breakfast she relives again her childhood.

Sango remembers her mother, steadfast and loving as mothers should be, and the pain that took her away. Sango remembers her father, his broad shoulders and strong arms, and a face lined from the years of fighting monsters. She remembers Kohaku, a mere child following her around, trying to learn to swing his weapon, wishing to learn the noble art of the demon-slayers.

She was so young then.

She is older now. Older, and a mother, and yet the monsters still survive in feudal Japan. The Shikon Jewel is gone, and Naraku is no more, but the demons still reside close to men, and the shadows do not fall away.

* * *

_Afternoon_

Sango washes clothes in the cold river. The sun blinks down on her, barely warming the back of her neck. She slaps the clothes against a nearby rock, looks at her reflection in the river, and wonders anew that she shed her armour and weapons for a peasant woman's garb, for the trappings of home and hearth, for the duties of a wife and helpmeet.

 _Naraku is gone_ , she whispers to herself. _Kohaku is safe and doing well._

And yet she jumps at the slightest sound—when the wind whips a branch against another; when a bird thrills softly; when another villager pads to the river to do her own washing.

Some fears do not go away.

Some shadows will never be banished.

Sango wrings the clothes, and thinks of a time when she used her strength to send Hiraikotsu spiralling through the air, the anvil of a peaceful god's fury. But now that strength is gone. She tiptoes through the days, and the darkness still creeps up on her night after night.

* * *

_Night_

Sango tends to the fire, feeding little wood pieces into the centre of the orange flames, while Miroku stretches out beside her, one hand on his prayer beads.

Inside the room, all is silent, for the children are asleep.

Outside, the cicadas sing in the grove, their chirpy notes swirling together into a sweet melody signalling the end of yet another day. The moonlight spills in, a beautiful silvery river that dances around the corners of the room.

"Is something troubling you?" Miroku says at last, as he always does.

"Nothing," Sango says. She gives the same answer every night.

Miroku wraps a hand around Sango's waist, pulls her closer. She's grateful for his touch. There is something so human about it, something that banishes her fears and the baleful death throes of her past.

"What is it, my darling?" he asks again.

"Nothing," she says. The words are bitter in her mouth. The fears are thick in her hair. The ghosts settle around her hearth, and they stare at her, and she shrivels up inside, shattering like strained glass.

Outside, there is a plaintive howling. The wolves are hungry tonight. The wolves are on a hunt of their own. And the shadows are back.

The shadows—the shadows—they are all back.

The shadows steal up the walls Miroku built; they perform a play for her.

First, there is a dancing patch of darkness, and then a demon's head. A village of people. Contorted figures prancing around. Men and women falling like flowers, blood spurting from their fickle bodies. A sickle rises. A man tries to shield someone from the cruel bite of a sharp talon. A boy takes a crushing blow in his back, cold steel slicing through flesh and then splintering bone.

And somewhere inside her head, a girl whimpers.


	3. shackles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Past sins don't let go; instead, they turn to canker deep in the heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't doubt that Kohaku's relatives—and Sango—forgave him his deeds, but it would have been hard for him to forgive himself, even three years down the road.

Dead men tell no tales, they say. Dead men fear no darkness. Dead men shed no blood.

Above all, the dead cower not in the spidery bower of ancient nightmares, the dead flee not from the spurious pursuit of fearful monsters grown thirsty with the passage of time. The dead fear nothing, for they are at rest.

But Kohaku is not at rest. Deep in the night, Sango's house crawls with ghosts. The dead and the dark twine their slippery selves along the walls, under the eaves, calling out for him with outstretched arms. The last dredges of the waning moon dance along those bone-white fingers; _rest with us, rest with us, you belong with us_ , they say.

 _No,_ Kohaku says, rubbing his fingers under his eyes. _Stay away, stay away._ Night after night he battles with the spirits, and feels the life sink away from him.

And so he chooses to leave. Surely—if he leaves this house of ghosts—surely he would be free? The chains have to fall apart soon. After all, Naraku has been dead and gone for so long.

"Come back soon," Sango says, pulling him into a tight embrace. Her face is white and her mouth is tight in the bright sunlight, the very picture of a woman harassed by nightmares and past secrets.

But Kohaku, thin and wan, doesn't think to ask about Sango's health. Instead, he nods and jumps onto Kirara. He waves goodbye to Sango, to Miroku, to the children, and soon they are nothing more than specks on the ground.

That night, he rests by a dry riverbed, watching the curtain of darkness and the stars shining like little diamonds in the velvety black sky.

Then he awakes to a sea of corpses and the filthy, metallic taste of blood rolling against his tongue. The stench of decay floods the very air. Kagura stands a little apart, fan uplifted and hair flying in the night wind, her obi belt a drifting curl of scarlet like a serpent waiting to strike. The hem of her robes are drenched a deep red, the colour of life dissipating into the ground.

She laughs to herself, and it is a chilling sound. 

Kohaku finds a sickle in his hands—the sharpened bone-head no longer white—and he glances back down to find dead men at his feet, their glassy eyes and lolling tongues a most grotesque sight. He knows now what he has done. A scream rattles in the hollows of his throat, pressure hammering against the sockets of his eyes, and he thuds against the ground like an marionette bereft of its strings. 

Then Sango comes traipsing through the village, unaware of the deeds of her traitorous brother. She is alone, without the monk, without the demon, without the Priestess. Her hair falls softly over the floral fabric of her robes, and she too falls to her knees when she see Kohaku kneeling amidst the carnage while Kagura cackles in the background.

"What have you done, Kohaku? What have you done this time?" Sango cries, her face in her hands. Thunder roars overhead, and the blood moon shines bright overhead.

"Killer of your own clan, aren't you, young brat?" Kagura says. She laughs hysterically, her amber eyes flashing, and her teeth sharp as little knives. "There will be no forgiveness for vermin like you."

_Killer of your own clan… killer of your own clan… vermin like you… vermin like you…_

The weight of the demon-bone brings an ache to his wrists. And so Kohaku covers his ears, drops the sickle and sinks to the ground. The bodies are so close now—so close—the stink of death hangs heavy in his nose.

And now Kohaku can see his father, his uncle, his neighbours all lying dead beside him. Dead demons lie slaughtered too, but his eyes linger on his father's bent, crumpled form, the blood congealing on his face and abdomen, his eyes open but unseeing.

"Father," Kohaku says, kneeling in the dirt amidst the howling rain. "Father forgive me. I—what have I done?"

The rain comes down, heavy and unforgiving, and Kohaku weeps his heart out.

* * *

Kohaku wakes at daybreak to fear and silence and a sense of loss. He sits up and looks around. There are no dead bodies, no river of blood, no sickle tossed aside in a moment of desolation.

He lies awake, perspiring despite the chilly wind, hands clenched and limbs trembling.

Life was good once—a warm heath; a laughing father; a sister fierce by day, as she studied the lore of herbs and poisons and the swing of the giant boomerang so prized by their family, and sweet by night as she sewed by the flickering yellow gleam of the lone candle; the thrill of the sickle as the sharpened bone flew through the air.

Then the fog came. It had been a bright morning which darkened into a tragic, bloodthirsty gloom. The darkness had enveloped him, the Shikon jewel and Naraku together manipulating him. He remembers little from that period—Kagura, who had been kind enough to him, so cruelly killed; Kanna, so empty and so young, and her gleaming, corrupt mirror; Naraku swathed in the silk robes of a noble, hiding in an almost dilapidated castle, sitting in the half-light as he weaved his plans and goaded them into fruition…

And the sun rose again. It was Kikyo who had saved him, who had bidden him to come with her, who had kept the shard in him pure, and saved his soul from the eternal darkness. And then she died, that gleaming priestess made of earth and clay. And then Lord Sesshomaru and Rin had arrived to save him from Byakuya… and then Kagome and Inuyasha had together managed to defeat Naraku.

And now Kohaku is free, except that his mind is still in shackles, and there is nothing he can do about it.

But Kohaku understands one thing. The sins of the past are not easily erased, and who might tell if and when forgiveness can issue forth from the hearts of those unjustly killed? And so he walks on even as the shadowy ghosts trail his every move, even as they taunt him at night with heart-breaking tales of grief, callousness and pain made real.

For he has sinned, and sinners can only seek forgiveness at the shrines of the dead, and pray that their souls may be cleansed one day.

Until then, Kohaku knows he has to relive over and over again the trials of his past. He has to endure the pain until his very last breath.


	4. relapse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miroku dreams of a relapse of his curse.

Cold and weary, Miroku stretches his hands towards the cracked walls.

"Begone, demon," he says, tossing yellow amulets across the rice-strewn ground. His bare feet rub against pebbles, against the soft bed of grass. He waits, counts _one two_ in his head, waits and waits and waits.

Then—a scream, the sound of a window rattling in the winter wind, and the demon is gone. It was only ever a minor specter with little true power, but of course the villagers do not know that, and they bow in appreciation. The village chief nods to Miroku, palms cupped and facing upwards. In turn, Miroku folds his hands over the chief's, folding the string of coins into his sleeves, and heads home to Sango.

* * *

These days, Sango grows old. Miroku sees it in the hollows of her cheeks, in the grey skin under her bright eyes, in the hands that twist the cooking rag over and over again while the soup pot boils over.

When night steals over the world, and all is silent, Mioku watches Sango. Sango watches the empty hearth, stares at the fire that dances across the logs.

"Is something troubling you?" Miroku says at last, as he always does.

"Nothing," Sango says. She has given him the same answer every night, night upon night upon night.

And so Miroku says nothing. Instead, he wraps his hands around her waist, pulls his close, lays his chin upon the velvety softness of her hair. And so they sit and so they wait, until sleep claims them.

* * *

Miroku wakes to relentless rain. Outside, the wind calls, and the lightning flashes across the dark curtain of night.

The raindrops fall hard against the roof, the echo of a distant roar of a tempestuous sea. Something is strange outside, something dark waits for him in the courtyard. Miroku can feel it, that pulsing draw of evil intention, of malignance set afire. So he slips out of the room, and walks out into the blinding rain.

"You have come."

Miroku turns, shielding his eyes against the rain. "You! But you're dead—you can't—but Kagome destroyed you!"

A white shape moves between the trees just beyond the periphery.

"And now I am back," it says with an indifferent shrug. "And I curse you again."

A burning pain in his palm, as if a thousand scorpions have stung him at the same time. Miroku looks on in horror as flesh pulls apart from flesh; he can see white bone underneath, and nearly screams in agony. Then the pain is gone, over in seconds, and now a terrible wind emerges from the hole.

The Wind Tunnel is back. Miroku has never been this terrified. With the practice of years he grabs the prayer beads from his other wrist and wraps it around the gaping, yawning abyss.

"Why are you doing this?" Miroku says, watching the white shape.

The white shape's monkey face breaks into a grotesque grin. "To punish you, of course. To take revenge. To show you that good doesn't triumph. To destroy you and your family."

"You monster!"

"This time around, the hole will grow larger within half a year. There is no cure, monk. You will understand what it means to love and lose and love and lose again."

Then the white shape disappears into the fog and the darkness, a blur in the heavy rain. Miroku sinks to his knees, splattering mud, and pulls away his prayer beads. Within seconds, branches start falling off the nearest tree. Leaves fly towards him, towards the cursed hand, towards the abyss where they will lie sleeping for eternity.

Miroku pulls the beads back, and the wind disappears. He knows now that soon he will meet his delayed end.

* * *

In the bright sunlight of the day, Miroku examines his hands. They are whole, and human. It was a dream, then, a dream of dead Naraku and a curse long lifted.

 _Why do I still think of it?_ Miroku wonders, as he carries logs into the house. _Is Naraku really back?_

This time around, Sango notices Miroku's silence. She sees it in his lack of chatter, in his lack of interest in the news Inuyasha brings, in the way he allows the children to run around the hearth.

And so, when the sun has set and the children are abed, Sango watches Miroku as he watches the hearth.

"Is something wrong?" she asks.

Miroku startles like a beetle emerging into spring. "No," he says, voice hoarse and eyes empty.

"Something is wrong," Sango says. She slides an arm across Miroku's back, all large eyes and sympathy. "Tell me about it."

And so Miroku does. "I dreamt of him," he said.

"Naraku."

"Yes, and he cursed me again."

Sango stretches her hands over Miroku's. "They look fine to me."

"I know it was a dream, but—"

Sango catches Miroku's hands again. "He won't harm us, because he can't. He's gone and he won't come back. He will never come back, Miroku."

Miroku nods, holding Sango close. Her skin is warm against his, and she fits perfectly into his embrace. All is well as they sit together and listen like drowsy babes to the crackle of the fire. 

But when his eyes close, Miroku sees his house breaking apart, the roof soaring towards him like Hiraikotsu once did. He sees his daughter twisting in agony, a scream ripped from her throat as she's sucked into his cursed palm. He sees Sango's pain and the horror in her eyes, the helplessness that weighs her to her knees. He sees the world disappear into his hands, feels the sting of bees, the coolness of rain, hears the echoes of a dead demon's screams. The keening of a bereaved wife rings in his ears. There are screams, and more screams, and then he swallows himself into oblivion, grief his only company in an endless, bottomless eternity of darkness.


End file.
